Taco Music
by Colorain
Summary: Emma's great idea . . . Slash. 3/10 in the "Variations On A Kiss" story-verse, a la me. 10 possible pairings . . . ten different tales.


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Taco Music

By Colorain

Disclaimer: 3/10 in the **Variations On A Kiss**story-verse. Some will be fluff, some will be serious, some you will like, and some you will hate. I don't own **Mutant X**or said characters. Yes, I realize I've probably taken liberties with characters and surroundings . . . deal. I take no credit for the idea, actually. I was inspired by an *awesome* Highlander fanfic, called "Dos Toros" (read here: http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=345137") So I changed details, didn't make it as good as hers . . . whatever! I had fun.

So life suddenly has a soundtrack. We all stare at the comm system in varying degrees of amusement as Emma descends the stairs like some kind of queen, the regal picture spoiled by bright red hair pulled up into pigtails and an impish grin splitting her face.

"What's up with the taco music?" I try to ask it sternly, but the plain weirdness of Spanish music spilling out of the Sanctuary speakers is making it hard to keep a straight face. Emma mock-scoffs at my remark, but it's obvious she's not offended. Jesse's closest to her as she comes down the steps, and she grabs a good fistful of his shirt and starts dragging him towards me.

Now, I've known Emma long enough to be able to tell when she's up to something, and this promises to be no different. But I allow her to pull Jesse to my side and simply stare down at her, my arms crossed loosely by my waist.

"It's not 'taco music'," she says, as if this explains everything. Like hell it does.

She probably notices my raised eyebrow, and can't help giggling as she continues. "It's real . . . passionate music. Good to get out the . . ." She pauses. I look at her, wondering if she dares to say it. Cause if she does, I'm kicking her ass. Girl or not.

"Tension," she finishes, obviously wanting to say more, but wisely holding back. Behind me, Shalimar bursts out into full laughter, and I whip my head back to look at her. Whatever happened to respect in this team?

"What's so funny?" I growl, and she bites her lip. This lasts her about a second before she's reduced to snickering again, and I sigh and turn to face Emma.

"No," I tell her, even as she starts to speak. You just can't win with this girl, I'm telling you.

"You and Jesse _need_ to work out the testosterone issues."

"I'm not dancing. No way in hell. Why don't _you_ go make an ass out of yourself? Why me?"

Jesse hasn't said a word yet, and I'm not sure whether to thank him or punch him. Instead, even _he's_ grinning at me. The little prick wouldn't know what a backbone was if I shoved one up his ass.

Hell. Should _not_ be thinking about shoving things up people's asses, hell no. Just because Emma _wanted_ to say "_sexual_ tension" doesn't mean I've got any, especially with Jesse. I mean, come on. I'm not gay. I like girls. Love 'em. A lot.

And maybe this is how they want me to prove it. 

Dammit.

So I've got one last hope, and I'm not holding my breath. "Adam?"

I don't even _need_ to look to know he's got a twinkle in his eye, even if he's not smiling. Damn man wants to see how it turns out. Bastards, every last one of them.

"You ought to at least try it," he replies, and I punch the wall loosely in defeat.

I look Jesse straight in the eye. "Five minutes," I warn, and leave them all in my dust.

~*~

I try to avoid light colors in my own wardrobe, seeing as my momma didn't raise no pansy, but I guess Jesse didn't get the memo. He shows up wearing some off-white muscle shirt and loose black sweatpants, although he looks good in both.

Dammit. I am not gay. Just . . . sizing up my opponent. Not looking at his package. Dammit, Brennan, _not_ looking at his package.

I force myself to look away and try to picture a woman. Sports. Anything other than what's right in front of me.

I end up with a mix of Shal's body, Jesse's head, and the privates covered by baseball mitts. So much for _that_ idea.

Emma looks us both over. "_Very_ nice." she drawls, and I scowl in her general direction. She laughs, a sound so deep in her throat I blink and wonder if I'm hearing it right.

"No powers. You don't want me to blast you." Well, that's good, cause I don't want you to blast me either, Em.

She stops talking, and then it's just us two and the music, the bass line an almost-inaudible sound that rumbles through the floor and into our feet. For a second, I can understand people dancing to this. But only for a second.

Jesse and I have fought together a thousand times. We've sparred against each other a thousand more. But this time's different. This time, there's something to prove. And although I don't quite understand what I'm proving, there's no way in hell I'm losing.

We start off slow, the motions so familiar to us we don't even have to think about them. Jesse brings up an arm, and I twist to block it. I wouldn't admit it to Emma under pain of death, but if nothing else, stretching feels good.

I launch a kick at him, slow enough that he can block it no prob, but the music's disagreeing with me. It doesn't _want_ slow and careful. It wants fast, it wants frenzied, and it wants it now.

We speed up our movements to fit the music, and although I'm glad to see we're not dancing exactly, the fight has taken on a rhythm that works with the tango. Damn Emma. She knew this was going to happen. Damn her.

Jesse and I kick and punch, lunge and duck, the blows that land on us dull and heavy, and I know we'll hurt like hell later. But for now we accept them, grunting as they hit and moving on.

Soon enough the pain gets sharp, brief but intense moments of contact that sting and burn. It's good that neither of us has won yet, but fights aren't meant to last very long. We're not cut out for it, physically.

I swipe at Jesse's chest, and although I don't touch him, he's thrown off-balance. As he falls, I feel his legs tangle with mine. Dammit. _Hell_ no. 

To hell with what Emma would tell you. I did _not _kiss him. 

Okay, so I fell on top of him. So maybe our mouths met. Briefly. And opened. Sort of.

But I did _not_ use tongue. That's just disgusting.

So maybe Emma was right about the tension thing. She was wrong about the sexual part. Because whatever that kiss meant to Jesse, it does _not_ mean I'm gay. 

Just . . . experimental.

Shut up.


End file.
